


Flax-Golden Tales to Spin

by DoctorTrekLock



Series: Resolution19 [43]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient History, Gen, Languages and Linguistics, Pre-Arrangement (Good Omens), Tower of Babel, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 21:24:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20973284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorTrekLock/pseuds/DoctorTrekLock
Summary: "I hope you realize that I'm not speaking with you right now." Aziraphale bit off themy dearbefore he could utter it. It wouldn't do to be encouraging his counterpart at this juncture.The demon looked a little dismayed at his words, his face falling and his shoulders slumping a bit. It was enough to make any decent being want to bundle him in a warm blanket and give him a hot cup of-- No. Stop it, Aziraphale. It's that kind of thinking that got you into this mess in the first place."Pfft," Crowley said. "Don't matter to me," he bluffed poorly. "I was just wondering if I could tempt you to a drink. I hear there's a group up north who's doing fascinating things with grapes."While the idea of a fruit-based drink was quite enticing, Aziraphale reminded himself quite firmly that he and Crowley were not friends and certainly not allies. Not after the Tower business.





	Flax-Golden Tales to Spin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImprobableDreams900](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableDreams900/gifts).

> Prompt: Crowley and Aziraphale and the Tower of Babel (also a bit on early wine-making in Georgia-the-country)  
Source: ImprobableDreams900, because tomorrow is her birthday! :-D
> 
> Originally posted October 9, 2019 on [Tumblr](https://doctortreklock.tumblr.com/post/188250648957/flax-golden-tales-to-spin-october-9-2019)

"I hope you realize that I'm not speaking with you right now." Aziraphale bit off the _my dear_ before he could utter it. It wouldn't do to be encouraging his counterpart at this juncture.

The demon looked a little dismayed at his words, his face falling and his shoulders slumping a bit. It was enough to make any decent being want to bundle him in a warm blanket and give him a hot cup of-- No. Stop it, Aziraphale. It's that kind of thinking that got us into this mess in the first place.

He kept his expression stiff and stern, even as the demon gently bit his lower lip anxiously before deliberately loosening up.

"Pfft," Crowley said, waving off Aziraphale's comment and very transparently pretending that he didn't care that the angel was apparently no longer on speaking terms with him. "Don't matter to me," he bluffed poorly. "I was just wondering if I could tempt you to a drink. I hear there's a group up north who's doing fascinating things with grapes."

While the idea of a fruit-based drink was quite enticing (grain-based alcohols really weren't Aziraphale's cup of metaphorical tea and the water was barely drinkable without a half-dozen minor miracles), he reminded himself quite firmly that he and Crowley were not friends and certainly not allies. Not after the Tower business.

"I couldn't possibly," Aziraphale said primly, before turning with a decisive sniff back to his latest acquisition, a truly fascinating scroll with beautifully flowing script laying open on his table.

"C'mon, angel," Crowley wheedled, sliding closer and lowering his shaded lenses to look over them beseechingly at Aziraphale. "Just one drink?"

"_No_," Aziraphale insisted, glaring at Crowley. He had been led astray too many times to count by those enticing eyes and he would be - figuratively - damned if he would let it happen again.

"Why not?" If Aziraphale hadn't known better (which he most certainly did), he would have sworn the demon was pouting.

"Because," Aziraphale snapped. This had gone on too long. First it had been the Garden, and he'd thought no harm, no foul, it wasn't like anyone had known what would come of the apple business at all. So he'd let it slide. Then there had been Ur, and he'd let it slide. And then Nineveh, and he'd sworn to himself that enough was enough. And now this.

He turned the scroll around and showed the script to Crowley. "What does this say?" he demanded, pointing at the text.

Crowley looked taken aback. "Er..." He stared at the words for a half-second before tilting his head and squinting. "Huh. Does that part--" He gestured to a few lines of text in the middle "--talk about the flood?" He looked up at Aziraphale for approval.

Aziraphale didn't give it, continuing to scowl at the demon instead. "Quite," he agreed succinctly. Then he reached across his desk for another scroll and opened it to the last section he had been working on, laying it next to its fellow. "What about this one?"

Crowley looked like he had no clue why he was being asked to look at the scrolls when it was clearly Aziraphale's area of interest, but complied. He ran his finger over the text, a hair's breadth from the surface of the parchment. He frowned. "It says the same thing?" He looked back and forth between the two. "But in a completely different way?" He looked at Aziraphale in obvious puzzlement, and Aziraphale was surprised by the amount of vindication he felt.

"Exactly," he said shortly. "These are two accounts of the flood. This one--" He gestured to the first "--is in Tamil, while the other is in something the speakers have taken to calling Sanskrit." Aziraphale looked at Crowley expectantly.

Crowley just looked confused.

Aziraphale sighed heavily and decided that he wasn't in a good enough mood to wait for Crowley to hit upon the right questions to ask. "Different groups of people have started developing their own languages," he explained, frustration mounting. "That's why the scrolls are so different, even though they're the same story. You and I can still understand everyone because we are fluent in the language that came before. However--" Aziraphale took a deep breath, feeling his irritation buzz through his bones "--our superiors don't have that advantage. Which is why I am attempting to solidify my grasp on the thirteen different personal pronouns used in Tamil, so I can write up my report on your latest _adventure_." He really hoped his aggravation was coming through loud and clear, even through gritted teeth.

Crowley blinked a bit, but it looked like he was still trying to wrap his head around what Aziraphale had just laid out, so he graciously gave the demon a few minutes to come to terms with the invention of linguistic diversity.

"Hang on," Crowley said slowly. "Let me see if I've got this right." He started ticking points off on his fingers. "All of a sudden the humans start making their own languages. Then, you have to make Angel-to-Earthling dictionaries for all your bosses in case they ever decide to take a jaunt down here. So now you're holed up in a tiny house in the middle of Babylon, missing the beauty that is the gardens at midsummer, because you're working on verb charts. And you think this is somehow my fault?" The worst part was that he seemed genuinely perplexed by Aziraphale's leap of logic.

"_Yes_," Aziraphale hissed, feeling like the snake that Crowley ostensibly was. "_That is exactly what I am saying_."

"Why?" Crowley looked positively bewildered, and anger rushed through Aziraphale, leaving him practically spitting with angelic wrath.

"Because it _is_, Crowley! Because it Is. Your. Fault. The Tower was your handiwork wasn't it? I'm rather certain you took all the credit for the _Tower of Babel_, a Tower which literally makes humans _babble_ in other languages, even if it involves making up new ones!"

Then, as soon as it had come, his righteous indignation fled, leaving him in his small house with a demon and two scrolls that by all rights should have been mutually intelligible. "I just..." Aziraphale sighed and rubbed his temples with his fingers, hoping that when he opened his eyes the demon haunting him would be gone and he could work on demonstrative pronouns in peace.

"You know," Crowley said slowly. "I'm pretty sure I owe you a drink." Aziraphale looked up to find the demon still standing where he'd left him, his face a touch paler than usual, but rapidly regaining its typical color.

"No you don't." Aziraphale allowed himself to be distracted from the scrolls for a minute. Crowley would leave soon enough and the pronouns could surely wait a few hours, right? "I've never bought you a drink."

"And that is going to change tomorrow," Crowley said, pushing his shaded lenses back up his nose from where they had been languishing. "You can buy me a drink then. Because today, I owe you a lot of alcohol." Aziraphale was not in the mood to argue that point.

"Fine," Aziraphale said, starting to close his scrolls and set them aside where they couldn't be accidentally crushed.

"Really?" Crowley looked surprised. "That's what convinces you go get a drink with me?"

"Yes," Aziraphale agreed, quickly straightening up the rest of his worktable. "You are going to buy me several drinks, all of which will be alcoholic and made of grapes. Second," he continued, "you are going to promise to consider the implications of your actions before encouraging anyone to build any more towers." Crowley looked like he was going to protest that one, so Aziraphale plowed ahead without pause. "Thirdly, I am going to vent about verb conjugations and noun declensions and you are going to nod sympathetically and get me another drink. Okay?" He looked at Crowley.

Crowley looked back at him, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "Okay," he agreed.

"Excellent." Aziraphale felt better already. "Lead the way, my dear."

**Author's Note:**

> The thing about Good Omens is that with the creation of the Earth dating back to 4004 BCE, there's a lot of license to throw all of ancient history in a blender and see what comes out. So...this, glaring anachronisms and all.
> 
> Also, since ImprobableDreams mentioned it and now it's stuck in my head:
> 
> Roman legionnaire: Sir, do you know how fast you were going?  
Crowley, with large innocent eyes: No idea, my good man. I just let the horses do their thing.  
Roman legionnaire: The gentleman who owns this villa says that you were going at a speed in excess of 100 _mille passus_ per hour down this road. *points to stretch of road that will one day be Oxford Street*  
Crowley, with a butter-wouldn't-melt sort of expression: That doesn't sound right. His water clock must be broken. These horses *gestures toward two horses that look like they were taken directly from a fresco and had never actually seen a _heredium_ of green pasture in their lives* couldn't have possibly been going that fast!  
Roman legionnaire, hesitantly; I guess that's a good point. Carry on.  
Crowley, doffing an invisible hat: And a good day to you as well.


End file.
